


City of Light

by Pikkulef



Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-12 22:38:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15350286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pikkulef/pseuds/Pikkulef
Summary: As some of us french say, il y a de l'éléctricité dans l'air.Just a silly one shot. That is not linked to that other fic I wrote with those two.





	City of Light

Paris. The City of Light, as they said. Mimi had travelled there on a whim, news of the _Exposition Universelle_ triggering her curiosity after all this time out of London, and she had money – lots of money now – to spare. So, why not?

The French were fancy gentlemen, all fine moustaches and classy frock coats, and the ladies all gorgeous, fantastically outrageous hairdos and _toilettes_ , where she had elected to stay. But she knew, like all cities, there must be a dark side, somewhere. Somewhere this proverbial Light faded, or couldn’t reach. And she was oh so eager to avoid it, now. There would be no such place, no Parisian Whitechapel for her. She stayed at the top of everything, looking for only the richest, lightest, funniest places. And the _Exposition_ pavilions were perfect for this.

Having left the generalities – she was particularly fond of this perfectly named new artistic current _Art Nouveau_ – and other “exotic” pavilions – of which some made her deeply uncomfortable, she found herself in the Palace of Electricity. She wandered around for a bit, eyes and ears full of the impressive machines and bright colours. The further she went, the fewer ladies she met, until she became the only woman amidst a forest of black, silk top hats. It seemed science was not a thing for women in this city. But she felt right at her place and filled one of the amphitheatres along with a crowd of men, all too eager to part sideways at her sight like the Red Sea before Moses.

A smile on her face, she seated near the front row, squinting to read the panels announcing the next presentation. A man going by a Hungarian last name was promising wonders about energy sufficient electricity and wireless communication. It didn’t sound especially thrilling to her, but that was always better than roaming the streets alone with her boredom, or the sick feeling of the “exoticism” of certain lodges. Time for her to pick a handkerchief in her handbag, and a gentleman had seated himself right in the row right before her, in the exact seat in front of hers. The gentleman was tall and had wide shoulders, and she couldn’t see any part of the scene anymore save for the ways to the backstage.

Frustrated to be robbed of what promised to be at least diverting if not spectacular or instructive, she puffed her cheeks and loudly blew an imaginary lock off her forehead. The lights went down, and she swiftly changed seats on the side so she could see again.

The show was indeed spectacular. She would readily admit that she had not understood one bit of the scientific blabber that man had shared in a heavily accented French (of which she understood a bit, but not well enough for _this_ ). But what he had shown was something to be seen indeed. He had created, before the eyes of them all and their murmurs and shouts of admiration, electricity itself – at least that is how she would describe it. Of course, it was one thing to know this was what was powering more and more things in her life as time passed, and absolutely everything in the _Exposition_ , but it was another to see the thing itself manifest in front of her eyes, in all its raw power and natural majesty – and noise, lots of noise. She was too well educated a lady to let it be shown on her face or heard, but the man in front of her let out a muffled admirative sound.

She glanced at him, his voice startling something in her, but she could not pinpoint what. In the dim light, and after having been blinded by the electric arcs’ powerful light, she could only make out a profile and a well groomed, relatively thin beard. Shaking her head, she went back at her amazement as the arcs came up once again, filling the air with an almost dizzying sound that was part vibration, part noise, and blue-white light.

Suddenly, her nose started itching, and she allowed herself to sneeze, thinking she would be covered by the sound and light – only to discover it all had stopped half a second before she did. During the short time before she regained her composure and the now pale looking lights of the amphitheatre lit up, she saw the man on the front row turn toward her.

When she finally was able to really look up, he had disappeared.

She was disconcerted, thinking again about the man as she extracted herself from the row of seats – not an easy fit with a fashionable dress, she was starting to understand the absence of women there. She could have sworn she had recognized him, but really, she thought, what would this man be doing in Paris out of all places? She was perfectly certain he was bound by duty and a lot more reasons that were less honourable to only one place on Earth, and this place was…

“Whitechapel” This sole word was the only thing that she could get out of her mouth as a hand appeared in front of her face, offering her gallant yet barely needed help to climb the set of stairs out of the amphitheatre. Above this hand, and above this neatly trimmed beard, the only thing she could see were surprised, watery blue eyes, with, just as she always remembered them, an expression that betrayed the apparent calm of the rest of the man’s body.

“Should I wish to escape this place, going to such great lengths as to cross the Channel for a fortnight, it seems I am still not able to. Yet of all reminders of this filthy place, you cannot know how glad I am to find you. Good evening, Miss Morton.”

She took his hand, unable to detach her eyes from his. He had aged – but we all do. He looked tired, but somehow energized, probably by all the wondrous things he was there to see – she was certain he was not in Paris for anything else than the _Exposition Universelle_.  A man of science if there ever was one - even if it was not his primary vocation. Still, it was so unlikely.   
“Edmund… I would never had thought… You, of all people…   
“Mandatory, hah, holidays, I am afraid.” He had not let go of her hand.  
“Taking some rest or got kicked out of your office?” She managed to muse, eliciting a smile on Reid’s face. He obviously eluded the question.   
“Taking the opportunity to travel and nurture a mind that has been too occupied on other matters. Paris is a beautiful city, isn’t it?  
“It has other names. City of Light. I heard lately, another name.   
“I do not think the French use this one.   
“Oh. Do you speak French then, Edmund?  
“You sound surprised.” In an unlikely move for him, Edmund bowed his head and gestured with his hands “ _Oui, je parle un peu français._ ”   
“How useful. I declare you my guide and interpret for the remaining of the day.” She grabbed his arm and arbitrarily took him towards the exit. A smile on his face, he followed without complain.   
“First, you are going to get us some drinks.”   
The smile on Edmund face was as bright as all the lights she had seen in the Palace of Electricity.   
“It seems I have no escape. And no say about it. _Allons-y, chère Madame Morton_.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, see, silly. 
> 
> And yes, for me Edmund speaks french, because it was still relatively the lingua franca at that time, especially in science (with German) and he is the sole one whom I remember pronouncing the name of "Blanchard" right in S4 (if I ever hear Matthew Macfadyen say more than this one word in french, presume me dead, by the way).


End file.
